


Sewing

by Caers



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-11
Updated: 2012-03-11
Packaged: 2017-11-01 19:20:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 414
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/360332
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Caers/pseuds/Caers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wihluta prompted me with sewing. What.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sewing

You’d think, being a doctor and, once, a surgeon, he’d be a little better at this. But the fact of it is that stitches and, well, stitches, are different. Putting stitches into a person means one stitch, tie it off; stitches in clothes don’t work that way. 

No matter how much John tries to make them work that way.

Plus sewing thread is far less substantial and far more easy to lose track of. And the needles. God, the, the fucking, stupid, tiny needles!

He swears again and sticks his finger in his mouth, sucking on it as he glares at the shirt on his lap. He likes this shirt. And it’s just a small rip, caught on edge of something during one of their chases. He’s not going to throw away a perfectly good shirt that he likes just because of a stupid rip and a fucking needle and wispy thread.

“Just get rid of it,” Sherlock says, wandering into the lounge, hands resting loosely in the pockets of his robe. 

The hideous tartan one, John notes. Sherlock’s in a mood for experiments today then. It was the only time he ever wore that robe. 

“I’m sure Mrs Hudson will do it for you if you ask nicely,” Sherlock suggests when John levels a glare at him, finger still in his mouth. 

“I’m not bloody asking her to sew up my shirt,” John snaps, and examines his finger.

“Bloody seems to be about right,” Sherlock mutters, eyes catching on John’s finger. “Oh, for god’s sake.” He stalks over and takes the shirt, plucks the needle and thread from where it’s stuck into the arm of the couch, and sits in his armchair. 

John’s eyes go wide as he watches, and it takes Sherlock less than a couple of minutes to sew up the rip, tie of the stitches, and throw it back at him. John blinks down, barely able to find the seams of the rip, even though he knows exactly where they are. 

“How the...” He looks back up at Sherlock, who has the needle between long fingers, and who narrows his eyes at a fly on the wall. It’s only a blink of an eye, and then the needle has pinned the fly to the wall.

“Boring,” Sherlock says and levers himself up from the chair and goes into the kitchen. 

John stares at the pinned fly, at his shirt, and nods. “Right,” is all he can think of to say.


End file.
